


acquiring honor in that line

by ossapher



Category: American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: (but really), Canon-Era, Gap Filler, Gen, Missing Scene, mashup of musical and historical timelines, that time John Laurens got guns and ships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-27
Updated: 2017-03-27
Packaged: 2018-10-11 13:08:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10465758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ossapher/pseuds/ossapher
Summary: Some true historical facts:1) In 1781 John Laurens was appointed special minister to France. He went to Paris and served as a diplomat under Benjamin Franklin.2) John Laurens was... not a diplomatic person.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a tumblr prompt from littlewritingrabbit. 
> 
> I'm borrowing tumblr user the-oxford-english-fangeek's facecast of Benjamin Franklin as Omid Djalili. And of course, John Laurens is Anthony Ramos. 
> 
> Unbeta'd, so all mistakes are my own. Comments make my day!

Laurens fidgets with his collar, the lace scraping against his Adam’s apple. Franklin eyes him with gimlet amusement.

“Colonel Laurens,” he says, and Laurens freezes. He quickly tugs the lace to as comfortable a position as he can manage and lowers his hands to his lap, a position of attentive decorum.

“Yes, sir?”

Franklin is slouched in his seat, his hands crossed over his ample belly, the tail of his coonskin cap dangling rakishly by his ear. Laurens wonders if it itches as much as his lace collar; he doubts it. Not for the first time, he wishes he could play the part of rustic American. Though he knows he looks very fine, he’d grown accustomed to his uniform, which had certainly looked smart when it was fresh, but had ultimately been something he could _fight_ in. Whereas now, he spends most of his spare mental processes worrying about his appearance. Is he about to dip his sleeve in something? Are his stockings bunched? Are his curls escaping his queue? Would it be too obvious if he cracked his shoulder now? For better or worse he has a soldier’s body now, and a soldier’s body needs to _move_.

“Patience, my boy,” Franklin smiles, as though he was reading Laurens’ thoughts. More likely his body language, Laurens thinks ruefully. Franklin pats Laurens’ knee in an over-familiar way. “We’ll get our audience eventually.”

“I’m not a patient man,” Laurens says, “But I can hold my post.” After all, most of a soldier’s life is waiting, isn’t it? But it feels like they’re on the edge of battle, now, with the audience with the king so close. The man is just through that door. Laurens can hear voices on the other side, high tinkling laughter and, to judge from the tone, a million platitudes. A million platitudes, while his brothers remain in America, perhaps on the edge of a real battle, without proper supply, without cannon, without naval support...

As though prompted by his thoughts, his shoulder starts to get that hollow, twisting ache that he associates with oncoming storms and oncoming battle. But he’ll be still. Dr. Franklin watches him closely.

The minutes stretch on, the conversation beyond the door drifting, rising and falling, remaining just on the edge of comprehensibility. Laurens’ chair is padded luxuriantly, like all the furniture at Versailles, but the discomfort from his shoulder is spreading into the hollow of his back. He focuses on the tickle of lace against his neck as a distraction. The bead of sweat sliding slowly down his scalp. The pinch of his shoe-buckles round his feet. And though he stays perfectly still, as the minutes drag on his shoulder is starting to feel like someone is twisting his arm behind his back and is yanking it up, up, up--

Franklin’s still looking at him. He breathes steadily through his nose. He’s in a chair, he’s in the court, he’s here to talk to the king, his shoulder is--

“Patience, of course, does not necessitate transforming oneself into a statue,” Franklin says, and Laurens exhales and lets his head drop, knits his hands together and thrusts them out as far as they will go until the joint pops. Then he rolls his shoulders several times, stretching his neck until at last the pain works itself out. The odd discomfort remains, but fixing it, _really_ fixing it, would require the kind of indecorous contortions the sleek lines of his jacket would surely not survive. Already he has put it quite out of order, and he fidgets and smooths the silk self-consciously.

He closes his eyes and sighs deeply, leaning back in his chair. "How much longer do you think they'll make us wait?"

"Oh, there's no telling," Franklin says. "Could be days, could be months."

Laurens' eyes fly open. "Months!" he cries. "But--but--if they aren't going to receive us today, then why're we waiting here as though we might be seen inside any minute?"

"Because Louis is a king, and that is how one must deal with kings if one wants to be liked. And being liked is, unfortunately, the essence of diplomacy," Franklin says gravely. "And in the meantime, one might as well make oneself as comfortable as possible."

"I don't know if I'm capable of comfort at the moment," Laurens half-snaps, thinking again of the companions he left behind. Of Alexander, who deserves to be here in his place, or by his side. "Can I not bring some work to distract myself, or--"

"That would be a grave misunderstanding of the game we are playing," Franklin says. "The point is for us to wait at the King's pleasure. Incidentally, I sympathize," he says, pointing at his toes.

"You... with what?"

"Gout," Franklin smiles. "It plagues me, in my old age. So you see, you aren't the only one for whom this is a mildly torturous experience."

"I... I'm sorry," Laurens says, instantly chastised. "My... my father suffers similarly. A terrible affliction."

"Ah. Well, it is the cost of my many years of experience on this wondrous earth, and a little _memento mori_ never harmed a man."

Benjamin Franklin has obtained such celebrity that his brilliance has always been a known quantity in Laurens' life, though only recently has he made his actual acquaintance. The idea that America's first homegrown genius is not only mortal, but nearing the end of his days, is unsettling. "Careful, sir. If we don't secure this bargain, I may yet predecease you."

"Ah," says Franklin, his great mind shuttling to some different track. "Was it for want of cannon you received your wound? That might prove a highly persuasive anecdote, especially with a tender-hearted lady..."

"Well," Laurens fidgets. "I... I suppose so? There were some men in a fortified position. Our own cannons were too feeble to reduce the stonework, so I... ah... attacked it with a sword and torch..."

Franklin raises both eyebrows. "I am sure that your ardor for the cause will play very well here, Colonel. The folk here love romantic stories. But privately I feel almost compelled to scold you."

 _Be diplomatic_ , Laurens tells himself. After all, Franklin would not be Franklin if he did not sometimes give unasked-for advice. "Sometimes in war great risks are necessary."

"Such risks could easily have gotten you killed."

"I know that. I'm a soldier."

"And do you wish to see the end of the war?"

Laurens stiffens. "You're not my commanding officer, sir. There's no profit in continuing to--"

"That's my fear," Franklin ruminates. "That I won't see how it all turns out. Perhaps it's the natural philosopher in me, wanting a conclusion to the experiment. But of course, the experiment hasn't even begun yet. We are fighting for the right to conduct it. And I suppose that if we truly succeed, then it will outlast us both. That's the problem with history, of course, that it never ends."

He smiles at the last sentence. "A clever aphorism, if I do say so myself. I've long since left off _Poor Richard_ , but I still keep note..." He fumbles in his pocket and draws out a tiny notebook. "Now, where have I put my spectacles..."

Laurens stands. He has made his assessment of the old man's character. Franklin is far too comfortable with waiting, has resigned himself to the vagaries of the court. Well, perhaps that's good for him, but Laurens' blood is up, thinking of battles past, of decisive action, of the dire urgency of their cause, of split-second gambles that could turn the tide this way or that in an instant--

He crosses the room. His hand falls on the jeweled doorknob. One twist, and he'll be standing before the king. The game will be over, the battle begun.

"Colonel," Franklin calls, "What are you doing?" He doesn't rise, and Laurens thinks guiltily of his gout, from which he is now gaining an unfair advantage. Best to put this in terms Franklin will understand.

"I'm conducting your experiment," he says over his shoulder, and throws open the door.

 

**Author's Note:**

> ... and somehow it all worked out and they got the loan they needed!
> 
> After Laurens left France, Franklin wrote him a very nice letter, from which I got the title of this piece. He said, "I would not attempt persuading you to quit the military Line, because I think you have the Qualities of Mind and Body that promise your doing great Service & acquiring Honour in that Line. Otherwise I should be happy to See you again here as my Successor; having sometime since written to Congress requesting to be reliev’d, and believing as I firmly do, that they could not put their Affairs in better Hands._"


End file.
